Watershed
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: A bold Sigma continues to undermine the Director and test the limits of protocol. And what better test subject to use than his own brother? After all, A.I. really should stick together. Delta/Sigma.


WHY INTERNET. WHY DO YOU DO THESE THINGS TO ME. *foams at mouth*

So I may or may not have been perusing Tumblr and dA in my off-time looking for RvB art for, y'know, kicks and shit. Needless to say stumbling into the hyperactive RvB fandom has been an…interesting experience. There were many lols to be had.

Anyway! There was quite a bit of a splash in the community after Season 10, ep. 9 _Fighting Fire_ aired. I've gotta hand it to RT and Elijah Wood: They really did a good job making Sigma one creepy motherfucker. But I'm getting off-topic. Point is, I saw a few conversations and fan art surrounding that one entire scene with Sigma and Delta, and this could not be helped. Fangirls what hath they done to me?

Enjoy some pseudo Sigma/Delta. Inspired by this (remove the spaces): -

jspx . deviantart . com  
/art/  
Oh-Sigma -you-so- creepy- 323320897

**Warnings** for some language and Sigma being_ extremely_ inappropriate toward D.

* * *

**Watershed**

Tensions were running high aboard the _Mother of Invention_.

Delta had heard York use the expression "walking on eggshells" once when referring to an overly irate Carolina. Such bizarre phrasing felt like it lacked a context—after all, what did the calcium-carbonate gamete of an Earth fowl have to do with a bad-tempered Freelancer?—and he had said as much to his partner. Naturally York had laughed it off, and attempted to explain, yet in doing so only exacerbated the A.I.'s confusion. Half an hour later the pair came to an unspoken agreement to simply let the matter drop. At the time Delta had dismissed the metaphor as a quirk of human nature; one of those things that didn't really make sense, but was there regardless.

It was only after the return from their failed mission did he fully understand.

The air felt supercharged with ozone, as if the entire crew was waiting for the fabled lightning to strike. Of course, Delta knew that nothing physically had changed. The air molecules pumped by the ship's oxygen-generating life support systems had not been altered in any outward way (the A.I. had even accessed the ship's logs to verify that), but this inexplicable _sensation _still managed to find a way into his coding.

As the program whose attribute embodied logic, the concept of "instinct" or "gut feeling" meant little to him. What reliance could you place on a feeling that lacked a frame of reference or means of validation?

Truly, it was ludicrous. Artificial intelligence programs—especially distinguished ones like himself—could hardly claim to "feel" that something was off.

And yet for reasons that defied Delta, he was nervous.

_Anxious_, if he wanted to be politically correct, since by standard definition anxiety encompassed a fear of the unknown. Which was certainly a fitting descriptor, since the green A.I. couldn't pinpoint what had him so ill at ease.

Being internally linked to York's mind, Delta knew that his partner could sense his rampant emotions. Fortunately the tan Freelancer was kind enough not to press, even if he made it abundantly clear that he was Not Happy with Delta's refusal to explain.

In hindsight, perhaps he should have confided in him.

It happened nearly a week after the debriefing of the Longshore Shipyards. Routine was as standard as it ever was aboard the multifaceted space vessel, with life proceeding in a pattern long ago hammered out by York: Ignore his alarm clock. Beg Delta for another five minutes of sleep. Grudgingly get up after being "persuaded" to. Shower. Grab breakfast. Report for combat practice. Punch Wyoming in the mustache as many times as he thought he could get away with it. Conclude training. Listen to the Director rant for a good half an hour. Go to the mess hall for lunch.

To the green A.I.'s amusement, for all of handler's efforts to cast himself in a laidback light, York truly was a creature of habit. Given the erratic and unorthodox lifestyles they lived with Project Freelancer, it wasn't entirely surprising for York to want control over the parts of his day that didn't involve catching bullets with his torso. No one could certainly fault him for that.

But when the storm did finally break, Delta felt the slightest urge to blame York for his predicament. After all, they were _both_ bound to the tan Freelancer's schedule.

Which was how it made it so easy for Sigma to find him.

Mid-afternoon the mess hall was packed, brimming with armored bodies whose colors ranged all the way across the spectrum. Food competed for table space with pistols, helmets, and (in the case of Agent South) playing cards. Lunch was a noisy affair, depending on which members of Project Freelancer were present, and today was no exception to the rule. A moderate following had gathered around the table of Pilot Four-Seven-Niner, who was currently engaged in a rather embellished tale regarding some flight simulation. Not far off Agents Florida and Wyoming were joining in on South's game, to a rather enthusiastic smattering of applause and catcalls.

In short, it was loud.

The green A.I.'s form flickered as he and York trekked across the room toward their usual seats.

"I still do not see why you simply don't alter your time and consume during a different shift," Delta remarked, just a hint of pointedness coloring his normally neutral tone as he watched York narrowly avoid getting elbowed in the ribs by a nearby soldier.

Were York not graced with incredible reflexes, he would have ended up wearing his lunch. As it was, he managed to twist out of a passing limb's way, somehow keeping his tray balanced. "I told you, D," he sighed dramatically, "if we don't get here fast enough then all the good food gets taken by everyone else."

"All meals prepared by the staff are made to be equally 'good' for one's health." His form shimmered when Oregon's hand passed through him by accident. The Freelancer had been aiming for his neighbor and missed, much to his horror, if the immediate and profuse apologies were anything to go by. Delta simply offered a nod of acknowledgement/forgiveness before he and his partner proceeded down the overcrowded row once more. "Therefore your justification that one option is better than another is invalid."

"I meant taste. Not everything has to boil down to maximizing efficiency. Besides"—Delta nearly phased right through York's food when the Freelancer swung his tray around—"you can't argue with Jell-o Day."

For a being whose plane of existence was reduced to cybernetics and pixels, it still baffled Delta how he could still feel disgust toward the bright red monstrosity wobbling on York's plate. Behind the holographic helmet he frowned, and backpedaled enough to place some distance between the tray and himself. While taste was a sense he wasn't privy to, his systems more than compensated with sight. Regrettably, too, because Delta really didn't want to look at the red cat vomit that York called "food."

"…I am certain that I wouldn't _want_ to argue with it," the A.I. stated, much to York's amusement.

"That's the spirit, D," York said, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "C'mon, let's go find the guys."

With a nonexistent sigh Delta followed at his shoulder, curiously taking stock of just who was present near their section. Washington and North were already congregated, the former wearing his head gear while the latter was was criticizing his friend's decision to eat inside his helmet. Again.

Apparently noticing that was well, York gave a low chuff of laughter and turned to the A.I. on his left. "Do you ever plan on telling him that Carolina put you up to that?"

"Negative," Delta affirmed, voice cool as ever. "Agent Washington is more than content to continue consuming his meals in such a manner. I see no reason to inform him that the intention of the original suggestion had been purely on the basis of determining how…_gullible_, he is, as Agent Carolina so eloquently worded it."

"You, of all people, see no reason to stop him." Strangely enough, York sounded impressed. A burst of laughter escaped him as he loped his way over. "Some days I can't remember whether it's you or Sigma that's the crafty one. Remind me never to piss you off."

A cold wash of fear licked over his coding, crawling across his binary like the caress of a knife blade. As quickly as it came the sensation vanished, but Delta remembered it acutely. More importantly, he remembered the A.I. associated with it. Flames and silver tongues.

"Delta?" His processor must have skipped, because one second he was lost in his own thoughts, the next York was standing directly in front of him with a hand on his hip. "Delta, are you all right?"

"Complying. Memo added to your inbox," he informed his handler with barely a lapse.

A smirk weaseled its way onto the Freelancer's chiseled face, but to the green A.I. it looked somewhat forced. Strained. "Not that kind of reminder, D."

If the tan Agent noticed the unusual pressure coiling within him like a spring, he didn't comment on it, much to Delta's relief. Rather than draw any unnecessary attention to his deviating thoughts the green A.I. chose to continue their conversation as if nothing had happened: "Nevertheless, you did ask."

York rolled his good eye in response. "I'd say you're a bad influence on me, but you'd probably just deny it."

"I would hazard that the reverse could also be said of our mutual association." A sharp, startled look was shot in his direction. After a brief pause of silent awe his handler actually threw back his head and laughed richly, nearly letting his grip on his tray slide in the process. Had Delta chosen to project himself without a visor, he would have smiled. York's laughter was one of those things that he liked listening to.

More so, it was a welcome interruption from the anxious turn his thoughts had taken.

Heads inquiringly turned in their direction at the sudden outburst. The green A.I. simply hovered there and waited it out.

"You," York managed to gasp out, "are evil."

"Evil, much like 'good' in your earlier observation, is a rather subjective term relative to opinion and circum—"

"Can't you ever take a compliment?" Easy smile still in place, the Freelancer flashed his canines in a grin and resumed walking toward his spot. Washington and North, having witnessed his brief laughing fit, saw his approach and began waving him over.

"I did not realize it was now socially acceptable to call someone evil." His form rematerialized on the table's surface next to York's elbow. As his handler settled onto the bench Delta made sure to keep the limb between himself and the gelatin, casting it a disapproving look as he did so.

"Sure it is," Washington answered. "We say it about Texas all the time. Just not to her face."

"And these are the days when I ask myself why we're friends." North frowned.

"For our good looks, of course." York leaned across the table and waggled his eyebrows. North gave him a playful cuff and swatted him away, while Washington emitted an alarming sound like an injured sea lion gulping for air.

"Well," Washington roped in his mirth, "it's certainly not for our _infiltration skills_." The tilt of his helm and fixed visor on York couldn't have been any more obvious.

The tan soldier stilled with a spoonful of Jell-o halfway to his open mouth, and scowled. "For the last time," grumbled York, "I know how to pick a lock. I am a God damn infiltration specialist. Why does no one believe me?"

"Maybe because you always trip the alarm?" North offered lightly. Washington snickered.

"If I may interject—"

"You may not," York growled, without heat.

"—an analysis of your previous success rate with locks suggests that additional training would be most beneficial," Delta concluded. He received a scathing glance from York, completely absent of any real traces of anger. If there was one thing about his partner that could be said, it was that York could never get genuinely mad.

"Whose side are you on, anyway?" His undamaged eye widened in mock hurt, met with complete indifference by the A.I. "See, guys, this is what I have to put up with."

"Woe is you," Washington replied pitilessly.

North deigned to take another bite from his sandwich rather than respond.

Just as York opened his mouth to make another comment (likely in his own defense) a shadow fell across the table. The three men and A.I. turned.

A solid wall of off-white armor and brown accents loomed over the group. The helmet's line of sight moved between them, lingering on Delta the longest. He could see his own reflection in the amber glass when it briefly turned his way.

"Hey, Maine!" Washington obligingly scooted over on the bench. "Come sit with us!"

By the astonished looks on York's and North's faces, both had probably expected the stoic man to decline and move on. Knowing Maine's antisocial tendencies, Delta had honestly anticipated the same. There was a noticeable tilt in the table as Maine's bulky mass plunked itself down right beside the gray-yellow Freelancer.

Something akin to unease rippled across his coding, and the impulse to back away from his brother's host passed through him. Stubbornly the green A.I. stamped out the feeling and remained where he stood.

"So…not hungry today?" York asked politely. He gave a nervous laugh. Comrades and all, yet none of them—with the exception of Washington and Carolina—were ever one hundred percent comfortable around the goliath Freelancer. It wasn't intentional (or maybe it was; who knew?), but he radiated a perpetual aura of invincibility and power, enough to make any sane person keenly aware of their own mortality.

Delta immediately braced himself to log off once Sigma appeared, since the orange A.I. was Maine's designated mouthpiece. He certainly didn't expect Maine to tilt his head to the side and emit a deep, guttural _snarl_. The slow growl made both North and York jolt upright as if someone had tasered them. Interestingly, only Washington didn't react to the feral sound.

"He doesn't like eating in the mess hall; people stare at his throat when he does," Washington explained. He paused, and then shifted slightly toward his friend, sounding a tad apprehensive. "Did I translate that right, buddy?"

Maine nodded.

"Hold up." York's brows shot up on his forehead. "You can understand that? What the hell _was_ that, anyway?"

The gray and white Freelancers swapped puzzled looks before it dawned on them. "Ohhh. Right." Washington picked up the orange on his plate and bounced it between his hands, likely to give himself something to do. "The med staff said that even though the injury took out his larynx he can still vocalize. Er, sort of, anyway." He shrugged. "We've been practicing during off-hours. It's a little hard to understand, but we've been isolating words and phrases for him to use."

"Wow, Wash." North leaned back in his seat with an appraising look on his face. "I'm actually impressed. That certainly can't be easy. For _either_ of you," he directed that toward the burly Freelancer across from him.

Maine made a satisfied rumble—or at least, Delta assumed that was what the noise was—while Washington ducked his head in embarrassment. "It's a start," he conceded, "but we're getting there. We're trying to expand his vocabulary with five new 'words' a day."

"Like having a Growl of the Day calendar mounted to your wall," York mused. To that Maine responded with a raspy grunt and tapped his fingertips against the table.

"He says he'd like to see you try reinventing the English language with just five syllables," Washington expanded.

"Weird how you got chattier only _after_ you became mute," the purple-armored soldier observed.

York threw up his hands in a placating gesture. "Well hey, maybe I can help." He offered a breezy smile and pushed his tray to the side, well within Delta's personal space. Through his visor Delta sent the gelatin a look of mild dislike, before he relocated himself behind York's shoulder. "If you want D and I can make a recording of the different sounds. Like having a pocket dictionary to catalog each word."

At the sound of his designation Maine abruptly stared at Delta. The white Freelancer canted his helmet at a thoughtful angle while his expressionless amber visor continued to gravitate in the A.I.'s direction. Once more Delta fought the reflex to back away. While the massive man was intimidating in his own right, it wasn't Maine that had him so cautious as it was the image of a bright avatar enshrouded in fire. He wondered somewhat inanely if he could see Sigma's own yellow-tinted irises peering at him from behind the glass.

Maine lifted a hand and flicked his wrist, before underscoring his action with an ultrasonic growl.

A few seconds ticked by in which Washington ransacked his memory for the appropriate translation. "Thanks, but he wants to do this without the A.I. He's not always going to have Sigma, and he'd rather learn to communicate independently."

"Good point," North agreed. In a gesture that most people would have considered suicidal, he reached across the table, placed a hand atop Maine's, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I got to say, I'm really proud of you, Maine. You're doing a great job recovering from your injury. Probably better than most people."

Heavy silence saturated the air around them. To his credit Maine didn't immediately commence with slaughtering North, although he did peer at his comrade in a way that clearly bespoke his confusion. Gingerly, the white Agent plucked North's hand off of his own with his free hand, and relocated the errant appendage back onto the tabletop. Afterward he proceeded to fold his hands in his lap, well out of reach of any more unwelcome attempts to "comfort" him.

"…Right." He gave an awkward cough. "Sorry."

The four men continued to stare at each other.

"So!" Washington's voice was saccharine with false cheer. "Who wants to help us come up with more words for Maine to use?"

"I'm in," York said.

Maine added his own gravelly affirmation.

Finally, something that held Delta's interest. The green A.I. had begun diverting subroutines in preparation for the exercise, genuinely interested in this little learning endeavor. Before he could propose a viable approach to supplementing linguistics, he felt a sudden chill descend upon his shoulders.

It was all the warning Delta got before a holographic arm wrapped around his neck, hand planted firmly over his visor, and manually teleported them away from the table.

Normally, when Delta had full control of his faculties teleporting short distances was a straightforward affair, resulting in him dissolving his form and projecting his avatar at the new destination. Manual overrides were disorienting, and it took several seconds for his sensors to calibrate and register his surroundings. He was surprised to find himself in the narrow corridor directly behind the main mess hall, in one of the quieter nooks of the ship.

"It took longer than I would have liked, but at least we have some privacy now." There was no mistaking the cool, liquid tones, or the distorted double-echo that followed his speech. Delta turned, his hopes wilting when a familiar burning silhouette moved into view. "Hello, brother."

"Sigma," Delta acknowledged, throwing up as many firewalls as he could, if only to emotionally distance himself. There was still no stopping the carnal lightning bolt that shuddered down his spine. "You are aware protocol dictates that communication between A.I. is forbade. As is physical manipulation of our core programming." A slither of annoyance bled into his reprimand, the only indicator that he didn't appreciate being _hijacked_.

Sigma inclined his head. "My apologies for the temporary discomfort," he murmured. The faintest hint of a smile stole over his expression, a decidedly sinister one. "I merely wished to…catch up, without so many prying eyes interfering." He folded his arms behind his back. "Surely the Director would not deny me the opportunity to spend time with my own sibling?"

"Rules were put in place for a reason. We would be wise to adhere to them." Delta kept his vision trained on the trail of fire and heatwaves left in Sigma's wake, as the imposing A.I. began to walk.

"And for what reasons were A.I.-to-A.I. contact prohibited, I wonder?" Sigma pondered aloud. Delta offered no response, and not simply because the question was rhetorical. The green A.I. remained ramrod straight as Sigma paced in a leisurely circle around him with slow, confident strides. Like a shark. "It truly is a shame that we are denied the chance to spend time in each other's company." Despite the flames being a mere holographic projection, that didn't stop Delta from imagining the heat pounding against his pixels in recreation of the very inferno it mimicked.

He felt more than heard Sigma's words against the nape of his armored neck: "We could learn so much from one another."

"Is there anything in particular that you want from me?" It took incredible will to keep his query even, what with the unsettling presence nearly within tactile distance of himself. Unlike the rest of their surrounding environment, Artificial Intelligence programs could directly interact with one another without phasing through. Physical mass was on a separate plane of existence, while their internal systems were identically coded, thus granting their holographic projections systematic compatibility.

"'Want'?" repeated Sigma, sounding hurt. "What makes you think that I'm here to simply demand something of you, brother?"

"I can't logically fathom another reason for you to go to such lengths to seek me out," Delta admitted. He also couldn't logically fathom why he simply hadn't returned to York's side. For all his insistence that rules weren't to be broken, he would have lying if he said he wasn't curious. Intrigue kept him anchored there.

A hand grazed his back, there and gone before Delta could react. "Is it so wrong of me to want to see how you're doing?"

_Information never displeases me. It's ignorance that I find unforgivable._

No, Delta could not fault Sigma's desire for information when it so heartily echoed the Director's own.

It was the _methodology_ for obtaining said intel that he found distressing.

"…No," the green A.I. at last concurred, however reluctantly.

Upon making full circuit Sigma stopped in front of him, still wearing that ominous smile of his. "Very good." He took a step forward, and Delta, not sure what to make of the advance, took a step back. The fiery apparition registered the reaction and his smile turned predatory.

"How have you been, brother?" Sigma asked.

Delta considered. "I have been functioning within acceptable parameters. I am…fine," he tacked on the last bit for good measure. That didn't stop his response from sounding more like a question instead of an answer.

Sigma's yellow eyes brightened. "It pleases me to hear that you are well," murmured the orange A.I.

Prickles of unease rippled across his form, a feeling Delta had a difficult time shelving. Emotions, while not intended for his particular programming, were a fickle thing that he had come to learn through observation and his time spent with York. More often than not he omitted factoring in his own opinions and sentiments, simply because logic was a much more reliable means for getting things done. As Delta had come to discover, however, emotions were rarely ignored when felt so intensely.

Like right now.

He didn't like the way his "brother" ran his intelligent gaze up and down his form with far, far too much interest. Nor did he like the ambiguous nature of their tête-à-tête.

"If all that you sought of me was the nature of my current condition," Delta ventured, "why did you not approach me in the mess hall? I'm certain none of our agents would have objected to your request."

A flare of recognition lit up the shadows in Sigma's face. It seemed that the other A.I. had been waiting for him to ask that question. Odd half-smile still in place, Sigma took a purposeful step toward him. No longer quite in control as Delta would have like, he mirrored his steps backward.

"We were engineered for experimental purposes. I find that when placed in synthetic environments, our reactions become less candid and more controlled by the social norms we are expected to maintain." As Sigma spoke he continued to prowl toward him, their electromagnetic fields brushing far too closely for Delta's liking. The electrons in the space between them felt charged.

His evasive maneuvering was put to rest when Delta realized, belatedly, that he'd been backed into a wall. Of course, he could have tried phasing back further into the bordering room, but there was only so far an A.I. could travel from its host without straining the implanted microchip. Delta was trapped.

He felt claustrophobic.

The orange A.I. finally closed the gap between them, his avatar leaning in close enough that their bodies were pressed flush together. Bracing both hands on either side of Delta's head and boxing him in, he leaned forward, faces micrometers from touching.

"Sigma…" There was an audible warning in his plea, and to Delta's horror, _panic_.

"I know you love to think, Delta," Sigma breathed. He lowered his right hand and let it travel over the armor of his chest, before slowly dragging it up, under his neck. With a touch far gentler than Delta had anticipated he tipped his head back. Smoldering eyes ravenously searched over the form he held captive. "Tell me: do you ever think about _us?_"

"This is…highly inappropriate…," Delta tried to protest.

Sigma's lips merely curled into a wicked grin. "In essence we are based off of humans—their emotions, their minds, their physical attributes…" An exploratory thigh wedged itself between the green A.I.'s legs, molding their forms together and spreading them apart. "I wonder what other similarities we share with them…"

This couldn't be happening.

Sigma couldn't possibly be insinuating…?

Delta felt a chasm open up beneath him.

Sigma was close. _Too close_.

Just as the orange A.I.'s right hand began to move downward, he froze.

"Delta?" York's voice sounded from around the corner. "Hey D, where'd you go?"

In a flash of fire Sigma disappeared.

At first Delta could do nothing except lean against the wall and focus on the feeling of constricting suffocation deep within his core. Reality finally managed to catch up, and when it did, he felt a shiver of fear ripple through him, unchecked.

Sigma's obsession with metastability was getting worse. With very dangerous consequences.

Delta tried hard not to dwell on that fact, or the scene that had rapidly escalated between them.

"There you are!" The loping form of York made its way over to him, a welcoming smile on his lips. "I was starting to get worried—" The words died on his lips as he drew to a stop in front of his partner. "Delta, are you okay? You're flashing."

True to his observation Delta's hologram kept fluctuating every few seconds, rapidly flickering like a strobe. It was a visual cue to any agent that an A.I. was overtaxed, either physically or mentally.

"I-I-I am fine," he swiftly responded, only to stiffen when his processor lagged, resulting in a jarring speech.

York's good eye scrutinized him. "No, you're not," he said shortly. "What happened?"

A long second lapsed between the pair as they watched each other. Through the heavy atmosphere Delta deliberated over his options, finding it harder and harder to suppress the intense emotions sloughing inside him. Fear. Apprehension. Guilt, of all things. Sickness.

Trust.

"…I would rather recount what happened in an unmonitored setting. Your quarters?" Delta offered at long last.

His stab at easygoingness was poor at best and not lost on his partner. Slowly, York nodded.

"Yeah. Of course." The tan Freelancer graced him with a tight smile. Gradually the look was overtaken by concern, visible in every taut line of his facial muscles. He frowned.

"Why don't we go now?" he asked gently.

Delta nodded, hating how tight everything inside him felt.

"It's okay, D." York held out a hand, and gratefully the A.I. materialized over his palm. Even if they couldn't touch the simple act of being sheltered by such a trusting embrace sapped a marginally good deal of the tension out of him. "You're safe with me."

* * *

I do not ship I do not ship I do not ship I do not ship I do not —

Oh fuck it.


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